


unusual children

by glendowers



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 02:25:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14728196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glendowers/pseuds/glendowers
Summary: a short snippet about the milkovich kids





	unusual children

When they were children, Lip used to say the Milkovich’s were a different brand of poor than the Gallagher’s. He’d say it with a dismissive grunt, his chin going pointy with distaste, as if the mere thought of what went on inside that house down the street was something he couldn’t even begin to fathom.

It always confused Ian, this superiority Lip could have, even as he was eating Eggos with an expiration date long passed, or wearing two sweaters to bed when Fiona couldn’t pay the gas bill. _A different brand of poor._

He justified it like this: the Milkovich’s weren’t _just_ poor- they were dirty. Wild. They all had the air of feral children, he said, with their unbrushed hair and mean eyes, mouths fitted for scowls and never smiles. They were a gaggle of calloused boys, save for Mandy (who, as Lip would explain, was hardly any different, gender aside), the type to give an Indian rug burn hard enough to produce screams, whose pinches drew blood. _Savage,_ Lip would say. The type of savage to hold your head under the water, unflinching, right up until you thought you were going to drown.

The assessment was harsh, but not _entirely_ untrue, Ian thought. Sure they were vicious, but as a boy with a naive hero complex, the type that wouldn’t get beaten out of him until much, much later, he saw more in the Milkovich’s than what his brother did. Or what the world saw, for that matter. He saw past the grime, the violence, and saw something more depressing than savagery: negligence.

Because at the core of it all, the Milkovich kids were a product of dismission- stomachs wrung raw with hunger, white flesh turned mottled from petty anger. Ian had seen the bruises; they always ranged from screaming purple, almost black, to sickly yellow-green, depending on how fresh they were. They always made Ian wince, as if he was feeling phantom pain, like it was him receiving that sharp strike - _bam!_ \- against his own skin, quick as a whip. He could sympathize but never relate, because Frank Gallagher and Terry Milkovich were two different monsters; horrible in their own unique ways.

It’s after years of speculation that Ian has his first interaction with one of the Milkovich children.

He was twelve years old, his body all prepubescent angles and knobby knees hidden under fraying hand-me-downs, two grocery bags in the crooks of his arms. They’re no luxuries, just milk, off-brand Rice Krispies, and a loaf of white bread (the cheap, chemical-pale kind that sticks to the roof of your mouth). It was all Fiona had money for, at the moment, but it was better than going to bed, body exhausted with hunger, he supposed.

He was just turning the corner when-

“Give me the fuckin’ bags, flamer.”

Ian stumbled back, startled, his pulse jack-hammering at his throat. In front of him was the infamous Mickey Milkovich, cruel as sin (as the Gallagher patriarch had once said). His hands were deep in the pockets of a dingy jacket, unmoving, but Ian had the fleeting image of Mickey Milkovich taking out a Bowie knife and gutting him right then and there. It made his neck throb even harder.

“What?” he said.

Mickey crowded closer, young face aged with dirt. “I said: give me those fucking groceries, Freckles, or I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”

Ian had two options here: run (and possibly get shit beaten out of him, as promised), or hand them over (and get absolutely railed on at home for being careless).

But apparently Ian’s decision wasn’t something Mickey was willing to wait for because, in a blink, he swung at Ian (Ian could tell he was left-handed, because the hit was solid) and stole the food from him without any further questions, leaving Ian with a black eye and the thought that maybe Lip was right after all.

 

*

Years later, Mickey Milkovich is still giving Ian bruises.

Mickey’s mouth is hot on Ian’s neck, teeth against flesh, _savage,_ Ian thinks, just as Lip had said when they were children. Mickey kisses like how he fights: dirty and bruising. It makes Ian’s eyes roll back into his head, like a man possessed, and vaguely he remembers the day him and Mickey fucked, in Mickey’s bed, a cocked gun laying mere feet from them. It was a good analogy for the two of them, he supposed.

“You goin’ space cadet on me, Gallagher?” Mickey says, fingers in Ian’s hair, _yanking._ Ian’s head nearly hits the wall, a groan ripped from his throat loud enough to hurt.

“I’m thinking about that day you gave me a black eye.” he says.

Mickey laughs, low, his face buried in Ian’s neck as if he doesn’t want to be caught smiling. “Well, I found a better way to blow off steam than petty theft and beating the shit out of skinny ginger _fucks._ ”

Ian couldn’t agree more.

**Author's Note:**

> hey fellas. its been a minute. here's a PARAGRAPH (haven't written in awhile, please forgive me) of an idea i had earlier that i couldn't help but write. but get this it's not:  
> A) Depressing  
> or  
> B) Post 5x12  
> so, in summary, very off brand for me. can u believe, for once, i didn't create pure angst. strange. anyways.  
> cheers. i didn't edit this. feel free to roast if necessary.


End file.
